Higher far,
Upward, into the pure realm,
Over sun or star,
Over the flickering Daemon film,
Thou must mount for love,
Into vision which all form
In one only form dissolves;
In a region where the wheel,
On which all beings ride,
Visibly revolves;
Where the starred eternal worm
Girds the world with bound and
term;
Where unlike things are like,
When good and ill,
And joy and moan,
Melt into one.
Love's hearts are faithful, but
not fond,
Bound for the just, but not
beyond;
Not glad, as the low-loving
herd,
Of self in others still
preferred,
But they have heartily designed
The benefit of broad mankind.
And they serve men austerely,
After their own genius, clearly,
Without a false humility;
For this is love's nobility,
Not to scatter bread and gold,
Goods and raiment bought and
sold,
But to hold fast his simple
sense,
And speak the speech of
innocence,
And with hand, and body, and
blood,
To make his bosom-counsel good:
For he that feeds men, serveth
few,
He serves all, who dares be
true.